A story I told at a party that was supposed to be funny

Today I commuted on the E train to my office in times square, sat through a 9-5 and two cups of coffee, took same train home during rush hour, a crowded bus  I get off after Main Street               roll to my apartment

finally burst through the door

look in the mirror for the first time today and there

in all of it’s misplaced                     overlooked glory

is last night’s bra

shining from the back of my wheelchair.

FUCK

How did I leave that   oh it must have been when I           oh dear god did everyone in my office                    wait everyone on the subway                 the bus driver who had to strap in my wheelchair             I’m 89% sure I’m going to end up on the internet              great, that’s why that guy was smiling at me for so long this morning

Fuck

you — my old metal friend    giver of freedom      of equality   transporter of life    of bodies     of my body holder of all things important                     like my purse and my wallet and my dog when she sits in between my feet on my foot pedal and now apparently                  my pink bra                    I blame you for being so convenient           so available              so willing to help me carry most of my life with me          while everyone else struggles with four bags I hardly lift a finger

As much as I’d like to blame you for clinging onto parts of my life that never get privacy and parading them around

                                                         this was on me for being forgetful.

fuck

But isn’t this what they wanted?

When I step out onto the street isn’t my body is already on stage           burning under theatre lights            sweating under the gaze of men twice my age               children       someone’s grandmother                  & probably you

Might as well give them something scandalous if they’re already looking

when your body is public discussion                     everyone in midtown already saw your pink lingerie flailing from the back of your chair            maybe the lingerie is your chair                  or your body           or the way it curves and bends and gives and breathes in ways no one else’s does  

does it matter                     isn’t everyone already thinking they’re seeing something vulnerable about you just by looking at you              aren’t they already staring         aren’t they already talking              that man smiling at you, taking your bra as invitation                   is that different than any other day you step outside             don’t they already think your body is open to them         assuming you’ll give in because you must never get any anyway

& even if I spent everyday with         a              pretty          pink             undergarment hanging from my wheelchair

weren’t they already looking?